Understanding
by pixiegiggles
Summary: In life there is death, in death there is life. Just ask the sun. Let’s follow Godric into the sun. A redux of TB episode 9.
1. Act I: She Sees

**ACT I  
SHE SEES**

* * *

_in time of daffodils (who know  
the goal of living is to grow)  
forgetting why, remember how  
__~ ee cummings_

_

* * *

  
_

"I'll stay with him," she tells you, catching your hand at the edge of your world.

And you take it.

Because your hands, trembling and numb, swallow her tiny ones, solid and warm, even as her heart opens up to accommodate yours, enveloping it.

"As long as it takes." Her promise is barely a breath, floating into the dawn. Yet, it somehow grounds you, even as your feet force you away.

So you take it.

**

* * *

  
**

She watches the sky lighten as she takes her spot behind him.

The Beautiful One.

When he rescued her, she thought for that fraction of a beat before reality returned, that he really was an angel. He looked just like all those old paintings—all cherubic and baby-faced, with that ethereal glow that only she could see. Small and unassuming, yet with a terrible strength. A quiet strength.

That night, the world flipped. She saw that God did not live in a church, that monsters did.

That night, monsters turned into angels.

Now, as she looks at the Beautiful One, standing at his altar and clad in his white robes, she has to remind herself that he was not, indeed, an angel.

"It won't take long," the Beautiful One says, in that low, soft voice that gives without taking, assuring without assuming. If 2,000 years have taught him anything, it's that there is no right or wrong—perception simply comes in shades of understanding.

Even he, especially he, knows that magic, alive in the profane world, must live by the rules of that world. He cannot defy nature, only trick it. He may not be mortal, natural, but his years on this earth had not made him _un_natural; instead, they had made him _super_natural. With every passing day, his body had learned to trick nature more and more – he grew colder, stronger faster; not breaking the laws of nature, but multiplying them. And now, when it was time to balance the equation—to pay the deficit he'd accumulated—he knew that every second he'd cheated nature would multiply the speed of the burn.

She looks at him, and nods. There is no need for explanations.

She may not be able to explain why she needs to be here, with him. She may not understand the world on top of which they stand, where beauty and the beast, friend and foe, life and death has turned on its head. But this much she is sure that she knows.

She takes a step closer.

"The Fellowship part wasn't so smart," she tells him in her gentlest tone. Not because she thinks she's pointing out something he doesn't already know, but because it becomes truth only when it's alive on your lips.

_Didn't you know? That the beast would turn on you, shred you into pieces? You can't go against nature. Not for very long, anyway._

He tells her that he did it because he thought it might fix everything. Not because she doesn't already know, but because now, at last, he sees how naïve he had been, to think that he could trick nature. Human nature was a lot harder to trick than the mindless pulse of the earth.

"Do you believe in God?" His big, round eyes dance with a practiced, aloof he no longer thinks like a vampire, so he can't quite hide his pain and fear. Not convincingly, at any rate.

She almost loses herself in the beauty of those hazel eyes—an impossible mixture of strength and vulnerability, sadness tempered with resignation and acceptance. Yet, there is an overwhelming light that illuminates those eyes … it makes her think of other, lighter eyes—she'd always thought they were icy stones, but now, she falters on those assumptions, no longer quite so certain. But she dismisses it.

She's grateful that he's asked her about something she does know—only too well. Finally, she can play the hero, the warrior, the angel.

So she answers him with a resolute yes, moving her lips and nodding her head with the truth of it.

He is pleased and frightened of her certainty. "If you're right, how will he punish me?"

He doesn't really expect an answer, so he is all the more startled when she stands up and gives it to him. He is beginning to really see her.

She finally understands. She sees his monster, and she will pull him from the jaws of the terror, and slay the beast. Because he did it for her. And because darkness should never block out the light of such beauty. And because she can.

So she explains it to him, with reverence, and patience, and love, that God doesn't punish—he forgives.

He can't believe her, but he wants to. _Can the monster ever learn to see, to recognize, its own beauty? _"I don't deserve it," he tells her. "But I hope for it."

"We all do," she assures him, and swallows hard—at the realization that all any of them can do is hope, and the bliss that comes from the giving and gaining of this knowledge.

But before he lets go, he will need to mend what he will soon break; he would never be able to forgive himself if the price of his wholeness would cost so much.

"You'll care for him?" He will dare to hope.

She cannot even imagine taming that beast, bending nature. "You know how he is," she answers him with a shrug, even though she knows she will not be able to shirk this duty. Nor will she want to.

But it wrecks the Beautiful One, tearing him down. And she can't stand the sight and the feel and the smell of it.

So she'll explain, and he'll understand. You can't fight against your nature. You'll only lose in the end. No matter how strong or brave a warrior you might be.

When it starts, they both stare at each other, holding on to that rock before the slippery water pulls them away into the swift and crushing current.

He holds her gaze, but it can't distract her from the smoke as it rises and surrounds him. This is it, and they both know it.

Now it's her turn to be scared, his turn to take up the sword. For her. Because she needs it, deserves it.

And because he can, he will.

The fear rises in her throat, shaking the tightly held muscles of her face, spilling out of her eyes. She doesn't have the strength or the time to plaster on her trademark nervous grin.

She swallows hard until she finds her voice, just barely. "Are you very afraid?"

He looks into her eyes.

He will take these with him. There is strength and caring there, and recognition of the same in him. He can only hope that he deserves it.

_Beautiful. So very beautiful._

He smiles. A quiet smile—sweet and warm, and peaceful. He is full of joy, and he shows this to her with more than his words. He wraps her with it.

She blinks it away, unable to quite grasp it. "What about the pain?" she asks, as much of herself as of him.

But the pain only means he's settling his debt. It's a small price to pay.

He shakes his head, not sure he can find the words to make her understand. But for her, he will try.

"I want to burn," he croaks, almost not recognizing the emotions that choke and quiver his voice.

_You have to burn before you heal. There is joy in pain, because there must be pain in joy._

She knows exactly what he's saying, and not saying. It makes it all but impossible to swallow the fear and sorrow.

His beauty is beyond anything she's seen or known in this world. True beauty. How had she not seen it before?

She drowns in the truth and light of his eyes. Those eyes.

Her thoughts now travel to that blond Viking. With eyes like the sky and depths she'd never imagined. She sees just how far he would fall. She smells the burning flesh.

And she wonders if she's already drowned.

She finally gives in. Released, the tears shake her body and sear her cheeks.

"Well, I'm afraid for you," she cries out.

Now, finally, he sees it. He understands.

"A human with me at the end?" he marvels, looking into the deep blue heavens that have opened up before him. "And human tears." He will not wipe them away. They light his way.

He lets them steady him, as he breathes into the dawn, the pain, the joy. "In this, I see God."

She has given him the best gift of all – not acceptance, which is the stepchild of wrong and evil; not love, which wraps the jagged edges of reality with the haze of blind acceptance; not forgiveness or assurances of what is or was or will be – which he can only give himself.

No. She's given him understanding.

She's given him that which he was too scared to hope for. Not that he would have even known how to ask.

She's given him that which is beyond his periphery.

She's given him life.

Now they can both rise, trembling and shining, truth burning away fear.

They understand.

The cleansing flames lick at them, as he turns around to meet the sun. He walks into the fire, and they are both released.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to my amazing and talented and adorably shrugging beta, LanYap. You inspired this little ditty when you asked if I would do an epov of Godric meeting the sun. That's coming next, but this had to come first._

_Disclaimer: I do not claim any rights to the Sookie Stackhouse Series or the HBO series True Blood _


	2. Act II: The Taste of Knowledge

_A/N: Well, hellooooo my darlings! *puts on le pimp hat* I am super-beyond-excited to pimp out the new SVM contest that I'm co-hosting with nycsnowbird!!! Here's the spiel:  
_

_**THE DEAD PAN CONTEST**: It's an SVM contest with a twist. We're looking for your best parodies set in the SVM/TB universe that is Eric-centric, preferably with E/S as lead characters. Your parody can be culled from books, TV, films or even cartoons. How fun is that? You get to play the casting couch game, with your favorite Viking! Get more deets here:_

_**http://www . fanfiction . net/~deadpancontest** (take out the spaces for link to work)  
_

_And, don't forget to sign up for alerts for the story, **Barmaid, there's a fly in my spoof**, so you can get alerts for entries as they get published :)_**  
**

**

* * *

**

**ACT II**  
**THE TASTE OF KNOWLEDGE IS UNDERSTANDING**

**

* * *

  
**

He had warned her. Quietly, but loud enough for the curious human to hear.

"Don't use words you don't understand."

She all but ignored him. Her eyes widened and dilated, the hair rising in warning.

Run. Hide.

But she was a fighter, so she persisted. She tried to understand him, but it was in human terms.

Another warning. Don't push the immortal god through the sieve of mortality. You'll never make him fit.

But his warnings were delivered in something that started as a growl, yet ended up closer to a purr. Because he wasn't quite certain if he was pissed off or turned on, disgusted or intrigued.

She had not earned the privilege yet to understand him, and he resisted the urge to see her.

He did not want to understand her; he wanted to have her.

But then, just hours later, he was advancing toward her and the lover who was so desperate to hold onto her, knowing that he'd already lost her. Eric taunts both of them, telling her that one day maybe she _would _get to understand.

Because he _does_ want her understanding. And because he _would_ have her. It was only a matter of time, and he had plenty of that.

He laughed with his eyes, barely able to contain his amusement, knowing that Bill's house of cards would soon come crashing down on his head – and that he would have a front row seat to the show. He looked on as she begged her lover for answers that she was probably better off not knowing.

When she turned her blazing fury on the Viking, he loved it.

So, he teased her with the truth, all the while riling her up by dressing it up as a playful flirt. Hell, maybe it was both. But that was beside the point.

When he told her that she might someday find out just how strong the bond is between a child and his maker, he did it for the sheer pleasure of seeing Bill shake in his boots, knowing that Lorena, and the truth, were just around the corner.

Watching the show _was_ highly entertaining. But, little did he know, the tables would soon be turned.

* * *

He rushes past the sniveling idiot, and speeds up the stairs.

The night is already receding.

Godric is staring into the sky, only acknowledging Eric with a slight shift in the muscles of his back.

Finally, Godric turns to his child, looking into his eyes for an eternal moment, and then turns right back around to face the starless sky.

_He is beyond words._

Eric watches the determined line of his maker's shoulders. Waiting, even though time is running out.

At last, Godric's words pierce the silence with a quiet, irrevocable finality. "Two thousand years is enough."

Eric's anger and pain shoots through his body, his jaw flexing as he tries to contain it. His arms are stiff at his sides, held with such unnatural uneasiness. "I can't accept this," he growls through clenched teeth, his voice rising with anger. "It's insanity."

Godric keeps his gaze on the lightening sky. He makes room for his child's outburst, but answers with a deadly calm. "Our _existence_ is insanity."

He finally allows himself to meet his child's gaze, the silence aching, but no more than the wound he must now deliver. He can no longer protect his child from the burden that has drowned him, "We don't belong here."

There is no room to disagree, but Eric is determined to make room. He'll tear it out if he has to.

So he rushes forward, kicking and screaming. "But we _are_ here!"

"It's not right!" Godric snaps back, now turning to face him full on. "_We're_ not right."

So quiet. So decided. So done.

Eric's voice now lowers, coming out small but desperate. He _has_ to get Godric to see, to understand.

"You taught me there is no right and wrong," he whispers, pausing to give the words the space they demand, "Only survival." He pauses again, the length and weight of the silence excruciating and thick and raw. His mouth opens, almost taking an unnecessary breath, as his lips struggle to curl around the word that he cannot, does not want to face. Because if he does, it will be real.

At last, he squeezes it out. Though it costs him, shaking him to the core. "Or death."

"I told a lie," Godric looks away as he bites down on the bitter pill, but raises his gaze to meet his child's once again, "as it turns out."

How could he have been so wrong? How could it have all _gone_ so wrong?

Eric's anger flares up. After an eternity of nights, suddenly, there is no time—not enough to convince his maker, anyway.

Eric cannot accept this. He _won't_. He advances, snarling out the words through clenched teeth. But his body, his conviction, is already bending. "I will keep you alive by force."

They stare at each other for a stolen beat, suspended in time even as it slides away.

Sadness seeps into Godric's eyes, his lips twitching into a matching line of sorrow.

It's another verse of the same song.

"Even if you could," he implores, "why would you be so cruel?"

Godric's beautiful, angelic lips spread into a heartbreaking un-smile—sad where it should be sweet; an apology wrapped in a plea.

He knows Eric _could_ never be so cruel, and just what it'll cost him. He wishes that he could pay his child's way, but knows Eric must shoulder this burden on his own.

Eric's face crumples, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile that is the death of a world. His world. His eyes roll back in his head, and he looks to the heavens that don't hold one star, one light, one hope.

He chokes and stumbles.

"Godric," he sobs, as he sinks back to their old language. "Gör det inte!" His voice has warped into a high pitch that would grate on his nerves, if they hadn't all just been destroyed—numbed and crushed.

"Vi har haft århundraden av kärlek och tillit till varandra," Godric almostwhispers, staring into Eric's eyes.

Godric's eyes flutter with the finality of the words, as he tries to bury them deep, deep into Eric. Deep enough for safekeeping; deep enough thatthey will never be unearthed.

These truths they will both carry with them for their eternities.

Eric's face and body contort with silent sobs. He smiles a sad, terrified un-smile, his shoulders and jaw muscles clenching and heaving, shaking and crumbling, as the blood begins to spill.

"Snälla," he cries out, "_snälla_."

Ravaged and destroyed as the truth rips into him, as understanding pours out of him, he falls to the ground. The cement beneath him is cold and hard and real, the rough texture of it digging into his knees. He welcomes it.

He remains in the pose of supplication, but refuses to utter the prayer that will be discarded, or look up at the god who will not answer them.

His knees bleed as his body slumps. His body bends toward his maker and he tries to lay his head in his lap, even though Godric is standing upright. He is so close, but getting farther every second.

"Snälla, Godric!" he pleads, as his voice gives out.

The tears burn as they slide down his cheeks.

Godric stares into the distance somewhere above Eric's shoulder, not yet able to meet his eyes.

"Fader."

"Broder."

"Son."

The silence that punctuates each word rips through Eric anew, raising him up even as it tears him down.

Eric's sobs now pierce the silence, the coming day. Godric takes a deep, calming breath, and gazes down at his child's golden head and the wilting body beneath it. "Let me go."

Eric takes his own deep breath, and raises his head, meeting his maker's call as two blood trails stain his cheeks.

But he still can't look at Godric, as he tries to swallow it, tries to accept it. His body convulses with the taste of it. He opens his mouth, gulping in the air audibly. He makes his decision with a determined flexing of his jaw. "I won't let you die alone."

_I will walk_ _with you through the world, through the dark, just like I promised I would. _

But not _out_ of the world; not _through_ the light.

Godric nods silently, consumed by the sadness, the pain he must inflict. "Yes, you will."

Eric bows his head again. His shoulders are quivering as the loud sobs rip through him.

_I will be your companion. Your right. Your wrong. Your world._

Godric places his hand on that beautiful golden head—the one that's lit the infinite dark, dark nights of his immortality, and slides his fingers down to curl around the strong neck. His grasp consoles even as it commands. It is not cruel or compassionate, right or wrong. It is beyond all that. It takes without asking, gives without judging.

He waits for Eric to lift his head and meet his eyes again. They stare, in silence, an eternity between them.

_What are you waiting for? Kill me._

"As your Maker," he says, a brave smile curling his lips as he swallows hard at the unspoken goodbyes. They are beyond the power of words. "I command you."

He nods an assurance, pouring his strength into Eric.

Eric gulps down the tears. He breaks, but only the traitorous muscles of his eyes give it away.

_What's in it for me? _

He rises to his full height, unwilling but with the grace that he and his maker—and this moment—deserve.

Godric lets go, but his hand pauses—hovering so close, but already beyond his grasp. He reaches for his world one last time, for one last touch.

_What you love most – life_.

Eric opens his mouth for a moment—but there are no words. And the force of his maker's words now pull him away. Eric's eyes sink for an excruciating moment, before he wrenches his head, and then his body, away.

He turns his back, defeated. He can't bear to watch Godric get farther away as his feet carry him off. This is where he'll keep him. Within arm's length, just almost close enough to hold onto.

_Liv__._

But his eyes betray him, and he steals one more look as he reaches the edge, the final drop.

Godric has already let go—he is looking toward the sun, a world away.

A warm hand grasps his own, pulling Eric back to the edge. He teeters, and she gives him the only treasure that she has to give. They both know it's gold. He nods, focusing on her, trying to hang onto and let go of all that's slipping from his strong, determined grasp.

She lets go.

But as she walks toward Godric, even as his feet propel him away, he can't help but take one final, greedy glance at what will never be his. Ever. And wonders if it ever really was.

He resists the pull of his maker's command for as long as he can, holding on for another splinter of a second, as his world falls away.

But momentum can only be deferred for so long. It must always be paid back. With interest.

The hard, unforgiving laws of physics smash and batter Eric, pulling him under into their brutal undertow, and he can only stare at his feet as they pull him down. Down the stairs. Down the hall. Farther and farther away.

He knows this, so he lets the force pull him back into the trajectory that he's resisted, wondering when the impact of his disobedience will hit.

The world doesn't divulge a clue that anything is not what it should be. The pulse is strong and steady as ever.

He once prized the speed with which the world moved, not stopping for anything or anyone. Now it destroys him.

His feet don't stop their uncontrollable movement until he is in the room, with the door shut behind him. He leans against it and slides down, crumpling to the floor.

He flattens his body against the door, wanting to get as near to Godric as possible. For the first time in a millennium, he isn't strong enough to take what he desires, and it burns him.

So he folds into himself, and shuts his eyes as the sorrow paints red trails down his cheeks and chest.

He reaches out for the familiar steady, quiet whisper that is his maker's calming presence through the bond—but it has twisted and changed. It is sadness and dread, magnified by an infinity.

But beneath it, there is a shining, humming, fearless fire; a tiny, mortal, hopeful mutter, gaining strength as it wraps itself more tightly around his ancient blood.

_Sookie_.

The overwhelming presence of his maker's blood now turns into a painful and discordant pitch of fear—and it makes Eric's stomach turn.

But _her_ strength suddenly soars, overwhelming all of them.

And just as suddenly, the momentum shifts.

She stumbles, bravery first faltering, and then giving way to fear and pain.

The tears sear his skin, his cheeks, his eyes.

But the strong and sure wave of Godric's blood rushes at them, raising them up in its comforting calm.

_Beautiful_.

It pulses and radiates with happiness and contentment, expanding to fill him up just before it contracts and swiftly uncoils, unraveling itself from the chord of their ancient bond.

Eric sits, frozen; waiting for the burning of the dawn. But it never comes.

All that's there is receding circles of a pulsing, shining joy.

The spilled blood scabs over.

And all that remains is silence—emptier yet fuller than he has ever known.

* * *

**Gör det inte:** Don't do it.

**Vi har haft århundraden av kärlek och tillit till varandra: ** There are centuries of faith and love between us.

**Snälla:** Please.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, so … what'd ya think? Please press that li'l green button and let me know! And, don't fret—that dreamy kiss is coming … soon ;D *evil grin* _

_A/N: Big slobbery Nutella kissies to my amazing super-beta __**LanYap**__. A huge, Viking-sized thanks to __**Nyah**__ as well, for combing through the final draft with her incredible skills. I love you ladies! _

_Also, thanks to __**KLloyd**__, for helping out with the Swedish :) Aaaaand … one last thanks, to my WC and tweeter h00rs – I swear I'd never get any writing done without you :)_

_Disclaimer: I do not claim any rights to the Sookie Stackhouse Series or the HBO series True Blood_


	3. Act III: He Sees

_A/N: Just a warning that this is where my story veers into OOC territory._

_

* * *

  
_

**ACT III**  
**HE SEES**

**

* * *

  
**

He hears her footsteps, forlorn and uncertain, as she moves down the same hall he had walked through just moments ago. But these are not regular moments—they contain an infinity. They drag and stretch and recoil with a dizzying unnaturalness.

And that is not the same hall that he had walked through, because it is not the same world.

So he remains where he is, bent and twisted over himself, like an ancient tree with roots that have wrapped themselves over and under, sideways and backwards, and over again—their growth so distorted now that they've become disconnected from their source. Like a dead tree, the sticky sap drying and caking where its life was ripped away, that sees it has been cut off from its foundation, but still somehow can't grasp its death.

How do you make your body believe your eyes, your heart listen to your brain?

So, he doesn't move.

Not when he hears the door push open, and not when he feels her moving closer and closer.

But when she calls his name, he can no longer run away.

He raises his head, eyes dead ahead, seeing and unseeing.

"Godric is gone," he chokes in a grief-filled far-away voice that he no longer recognizes.

"I know," she responds, buying time she doesn't have as she searches for words that don't exist.

_There is nothing to say …_

But she does, anyway. "I'm so sorry."

He hates her and loves her for trying to give him the impossible.

When she reaches for him, cupping his chin, he'll try a brave smile—a thank you for your effort—even as his dull, dead eyes fix on that invisible spot in the distance, just below the horizon.

So she lifts his head, seeking him, pleading to be let in as she teeters above him. Will he push or will he pull?

His eyes meet hers but instantly turn away, unable to stand the burn.

He will pray—and maybe even dare to hope—that she'll understand that it's all he can give.

He feels her warmth get nearer, and shuts his eyes against it, freezing in place so as not to disturb her trajectory.

He waits.

His body hums with the effort—at once longing for the release that she promises and dreading it, as her sweet, intoxicating scent descends into every pore of his body.

_You shouldn't have come. _

_I needed you to come._

When her lips finally touch his skin, his eyes well up. Her kisses burn, but he will take it. They brush ever so softly—barely a whisper—first over one cheek, then the other, before pausing to bless each eyelid, almost releasing the tension and the grief there.

She presses her forehead against his, resting there for one ragged breath. When she straightens, their eyes will meet at last.

And with that final glance she lets go.

But he grabs her hand, entwining their fingers as he crushes them to his heart. Clutching at her neck, he pulls her to him, pressing into her.

She doesn't resist, resting in his grasp, melting into him as she tries to figure out what she can give him. She feels his need, his hunger, and her hand shoots out to reach for him, curling around his neck.

Their mouths seek each other out.

He raises his eyes to hers just before their lips meet, immediately looking away, unsteady and unsure.

_Look in my heart. _

_I know you understand._

She pulls his lips into her mouth, gentle and uncertain, asking for permission, answering his desperate pleas with her own.

He falls apart.

The blood spills, hot and thick, as he clutches at her arms and falls into her. His lips close over hers with savage need as the grief tears through him. He shudders against her, sucking, probing, clinging, taking.

_Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me._

But the feel of her warm tears, spilling onto his own, is too much. Far too much. He twists their bodies, cradling her head as he lays her down beneath him, their lips never parting.

He finally wrenches himself away. Raising his head, he watches her watching him before baring himself and letting his fangs drop. His eyes pierce into hers as he hovers above her, arousal and pain stiffening his body.

And he waits.

She doesn't blink.

The antelope jumps into the jaws of the lion.

She drinks him in, all of him. After the moment stretches between them—too long yet still not long enough—she reaches a tentative hand to trace his lips. He leans into her touch, savoring her warmth as he invites her in.

Her breath hitches, but she swallows it, and moves her hand to his touch his fangs. He sways as her fingers barely graze the sharp tip-- it's all he can do not to push into her and pierce the skin.

He can't understand why he's not giving into his savage nature. And why he doesn't even care to understand.

Her fingers leave his mouth as quickly and as softly as they came. He traces the curve of her waist, the feel of her warm skin steadying him as he watches her arm fall to her side. Her eyes darken and her lips part just before she turns to bare her neck, offering herself.

His grip tightens as he slides his hand down to rest on her hip and he descends.

Fangs pierce skin. Blood floods tongue. Death makes room for life.

*

The tickle of warm lips grazing against your cheeks, murmuring a silent goodbye, stir you into semi-consciousness.

You listen to the soft steps shuffle away.

You drift in and out, the waves of lust and grief and eternal fatigue batting you around.

Somehow, you manage to wake up just before death claims you for the day. The bed is empty beside you, except for one soft lump. Not big enough or warm enough to weigh down your mattress or lift your heart.

No, barely a shadow.

A bitter smile spreads across your lips when you see what she has left for you: it smells of Godric's beautiful blood. And the sun.

You welcome death, like you have done for a millennium before. But this time, the misery and loneliness of truly understanding – cold and sharp and hard—fills your tomb.

To live, first you must die.

* * *

_A/N: __Yes, I know this one was short. But, it just seemed like it needed to be on its own. The tale is almost complete—just a little bit of an epilogue to follow._

_Please review and let me know what you thought :)_

_A/N: Profuse, enthusiastic, overflowing, exuberant—ah, well, you get the picture—thanks to my amazing super-beta __**LanYap**__. Any mistakes remaining are my own._

_Disclaimer: I do not claim any rights to the Sookie Stackhouse Series or the HBO series True Blood_


	4. Postscript: Undreams

**POSTSCRIPT**

**UN-DREAMS**

**

* * *

  
**

_Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get, it's what you are expected to give—which is everything._

_~Vittorio Alfieri_

_

* * *

  
_

She lies in his arms, searching his eyes. The coldness and hardness she'd always seen there wasn't gone, but there is something else there—deeper, sadder, almost human. The naked truth there is painful and beautiful and almost unbearable.

It shines.

Images flash behind her eyes of the beautiful man who had visited her bed in the land of her dreams, promising her the moon and the stars. His world.

She inclines her head, studying him, and he bares himself, letting his fangs drop. She can't even pretend that this is the same man of her dreams.

His skin is cold and his eyes burn.

He has fangs that could rip her to shreds, and he sheds blood tears that tear at all her soft spots.

And he is beautiful. _So beautiful._ It makes the world fall away.

So she reaches out a tentative hand, brushing the cool lips and just barely grazing the fangs as she meets his hungry eyes.

_You're deep._

_You feel. _

_There's love in you._

The words crash against her with their truth.

She knows this is no dream. And she knows that she needs, hungers, burns for him just as much as he does for her. So she turns, baring her neck.

She moans as he takes the offering that she has placed at his altar, the wave of lust and joy and release engulfing her as their bodies and blood entwine.

* * *

She floats up to consciousness slowly. When she breaks the surface, she takes in her surroundings in stride, with a surprising lack of terror or alarm, and then proceeds to disentangle herself from the arms that wrap around her. With reverence and tenderness, she holds his hand, brushing each finger against her lips before laying it on the bed by his side.

She buries her hand in his hair and then brushes it away from his face, allowing herself a moment to take in the perfection of his features—all the hardness dissolved with the release of rest.

Her shoulders rise and fall with a breath of resignation and longing. She brushes a goodbye on his temple just before she turns to leave.

But she can't go yet. She still has one more thing to give him. A treasure.

The white shirt remains at the edge of the room, exactly where she'd let it drop to the floor just a short while ago. She picks it up with the same veneration as when she'd picked it up from the roof a lifetime ago.

Last night, she had awakened from her dream, loathing herself and convinced that it must have been the magic of his ancient blood that had made her see Eric as anything but a cold and calculating predator; the monster which she had always known him to be. Now, she was no longer so certain.

So what could she give this man, who had seen the world rise and fall, twist and turn, live and die for an infinity of darkness? It wasn't a whole lot, in measurable terms at least, but she would give him what she could.

A piece of cloth that held the memory of love and loss.

And the reassurance that she would be death's companion. To the end. Through the dark and into the light. As long as it took.

As it turns out, life _can_ make room for death.

* * *

She drifts back down into the semi-consciousness of sleep almost as soon as they settle into a comfortable and steady speed on the way back home.

She dreams of the beautiful and broken vampire, and almost convinces herself that it was all a dream. Because if it wasn't—well, then she would have to face the fact that this _was_ really the beginning of a new world, and she hadn't yet mourned for the death of the world she'd left behind. With a kiss and a bite.

So when her eyes flutter open with his name almost slipping from her lips, she shakes it off.

It was a dream. Only a dream. It simply had to be.

But you can never close your eyes after you have opened them. You can try—but the truth stares at you, even behind tightly shut lids.

Her brother's words float around her as she stares out the window.

"Nothin' looks exactly the way I left it . . . know what I mean?"

She considers telling him not to speak of things he does not understand.

That knowledge is its own kind of death.

That death used to scare her.

But that was when she saw the clear outlines of right and wrong. And now—everything had changed. The world. Her world.

So she just gives him a small, encouraging smile and mutters. "I wouldn't know; I've never been away before."

Then she looks at her world as it slides by, so familiar, yet so utterly, irrevocably, jarringly changed. She whispers to no one in particular, "It sure does seem like something's different."

* * *

_A/N: And thus ends my tribute to our beloved Godric. We adored you, and already miss you. May you rest in peace—loved but never forgotten :) (Oh, I know, I know. I'm such a Godric-holic!)_

_As a side note, I did want to say that the differences in Erics between the two dream sequences always struck me, and this just seemed like the perfect chance to explore it._

_Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it :) Please feed my writing soul with lots of review lurrrve! I musts eats :)_

_A ginormous-humongous-way-more-than-graciously-plentiful-sized thanks to my beta __**LanYap**__, who inspired this little ditty, and edited it to perfection :) *slobbery Nutella kissies forevaaah* _

_And a million thanks to __**nycsnowbird**__ as well, for giving this a quick once-over with her hawk-beta-vision._

_Any mistakes remaining are purely my own._

_As always, __I do not claim any rights to the Sookie Stackhouse Series or the HBO series True Blood._


End file.
